


(because it's personal, it's between me and him.)

by Anonymous



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Underage, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Flames licked at Arthur’s heels as he strode away from the mania, feeling gloriously light. Almost holy, as if a God would want anything to do with him. From his head to his feet, he felt nothing but a sense of peace born from triumph.Life.Life that he had never, ever had the privilege to feel before. It was almost as if heʼd been forced to take it for himself from others whoʼd wanted to take it first. A little bit of a tongue-twister.





	(because it's personal, it's between me and him.)

**Author's Note:**

> personally, i don't think that arthur and bruce are brothers, but i do think that arthur _believes_ they are, and i kind of think that’s hot. 
> 
> whatever this thing is, it’s set just after the second-to-last scene in the movie. the title is from the absolutely flavorful cut line at the end of the original script.

Arthur had never heard so much noise outside of his head rather than inside it. A complete overhaul of order and a dismantling of placation. It was music that he didnʼt have to imagine; a melody in its own right. Flames licked at his heels as he strode away from the mania, feeling gloriously light. Almost holy, as if a God would want anything to do with him. From his head to his feet, he felt nothing but a sense of peace born from triumph. _Life._ Life that he had never, ever had the privilege to feel before. It was almost as if heʼd been forced to take it for himself from others whoʼd wanted to take it first. A little bit of a tongue-twister.

Arthur stepped around a nasty pair of broken, smashed legs that matched a broken, smashed face laying in a pulp just before the alleyway opened its mouth to the darkness. He briefly paused to toe the mouth of the corpse open and teeth, hanging on by bloody threads, tumbled out. He bent down, pulled the teeth free, and tucked them into his pocket.

Lifting his head again brought him the shapes dimly illuminated by the streetlight on the other side of the alleyway, a golden, flickering glow making the shadows wince. It was difficult to see at first, just trying to sort out what was what, what piece went where, but Arthurʼs eyes adjusted sooner rather than later. His breath caught and began to stutter for a moment as he stepped forward, his heart leaping in glee.

Bruce Wayne, trembling and frozen to the ground, stared back at Arthur, the blood on his face dripping onto his smart, hopelessly expensive night-on-the-town clothes. He looked shell-shocked. Blank.

He looked _vulnerable._ He looked vulnerable as he stood in between the bodies at his feet. Which, oh. The bodies. _The bodies._

“Would you look at that?” Arthur breathed, his heart thumping against his ribcage. It turned somersaults. Did party tricks. It felt like Christmas. “Look at Daddy. Look at his stupid, stupid, dead face!” Arthur pushed at Thomasʼs head with his foot, turning it until he could see Thomasʼs dopey, glossy, heavy expression. Laughing in pure delight, Arthur dropped to his knees, grabbed the sides of Thomasʼs head, and kissed him square on his icy lips. The blood that Arthur had coughed up slid and mixed with Thomasʼs, slick and sick. “Dear old departed Daddy! The tragedy! The drama! The _comedy!"_ He let Thomasʼs head fall as he jumped back up, the manʼs fat cheek squishing against the ground on impact. “Oh, the _romance_—itʼs perfect. Itʼs absolutely perfect. And the cold-hearted sperm bank figurehead who let him treat people every way he wanted, too, there she is, and her makeupʼs ruined.” Arthur clucked his tongue in sympathy before kicking the pearls on the ground at Martha Wayneʼs limp form. “Shot down before their second big step in propagandizing, well after the prime of their lives! Itʼs all so _sad._ What a _shame._ I think it belongs on TV.”

Arthur looked up from the crumpled, bleeding media- darling-pornography objects to the real star of the show, who was quiet and solid and monotone as ever. Bruce had taken a few steps back, twisting his sweater between his hands. He swallowed and his mouth quivered ever so slightly when Arthur met his eyes.

“You did all this,” Bruce whispered. “You—they all look like you. You told them to do this, didnʼt you? This is your fault.” 

Arthur smiled and laughed, short and sunny as he took one step forward, then another. Bruce gave a tiny shake of his head, a soft, agonized noise escaping that mouth. Small mouth. Pink mouth. Warm mouth, wet and stretchy between Arthurʼs fingers behind a fence. The memory was palpable. 

Arthur knelt down before Bruce, the cold ground biting at his knees through his pants. “Bruce, I never told any of them to do anything. Everything you see, everything you hear, everything thatʼs happened to you or anyone else—that is because the very fabric of your world is being torn. People are putting their fingers through it, poking holes—" Arthur jabbed Bruce in the middle of his chest with two fingers, sharp and sudden, “—through the system your—our father created to keep people like me kissing and licking his feet when he never bothered to give a _shit_ about any of us. He never cared about me, Bruce, and he never cared about you, either. Thatʼs why youʼre not crying, isnʼt it?”

Bruce swallowed and blinked a few times, silent. Arthur reached up and cupped Bruceʼs cheeks, stroking the soft, tender skin. Bruce tensed up, but didnʼt pull away.

Arthur tilted his head, licking his lips before he grinned. “You know he was a terrible man, donʼt you? He was a very, very bad man. A very bad man.” He slid his thumbs into Bruceʼs mouth, pulling the sides open, giving the boy the smile he so desperately needed.

“Do you know what he said to me when we first met, Bruce? He told me that if I ever touched you again, he would fucking kill me,” Arthur said softly before snickering, then falling inevitably into a fit of giggles. “He would fucking kill me! Well, guess what, Dad, youʼre _dead!_" he exclaimed, throwing his head back to beam at Thomas. "Youʼre dead and heʼs not yours anymore! Heʼll never be yours again!”

_Yours. _

_Mine. _

One of Arthur's hands left Bruce's mouth to slide around to the back of his neck, pushing him forward. He was close enough that Arthur could smell the blood. Hot and rich and sweet and metallic. It made Arthur's eyes flutter shut as he took it in, his lips parting in a harsh breath. 

"Bruce, you belong to me now," Arthur murmured, the revelation of how true that was rolling over him in a delightful shudder. "I think it stands to reason that you do, because I'm your closest living family. He didn't tell you, did he? Of course he didn't. He wouldn't even tell me. No one would. But I, Bruce, I would never lie to you. Not like him." He curled his fingers in Bruce's hair, pulling ever so slightly. Bruce's teeth sunk into his bottom lip as his head fell in line with Arthur's hand, his neck a little more exposed.

Every inch of Bruce's skin seemed as smooth and creamy and sweet as the last. Untouched. Gloriously untouched. His skin was evidence of an innocent childhood that Arthur had never gotten to have and it made Arthur itch under his clothes with a kind of ravenous hunger to mark it up and make Bruce _understand._

There was a start with the loss of innocence about the world and how all people that existed within it were capable of great pain and evil and power. Bruce had seen both his parents get killed in front of his face. What was a better wake-up call than that?

Arthur clutched a handful of Bruce's hair in his hand and ran his tongue over the boy's cheek, slow and flat, licking up each speck of gore with a dull groan that rattled his very depths. "You're mine," he breathed as Bruce squirmed and whimpered in his grip. "You're the only one I have left. You're all mine."

He heard Bruce’s voice, tiny and scratching against the boy’s throat as it came out: “Stop.” 

Arthur paused for just a moment, his breathing uneven and hot on Bruce’s temple. “You could get away, couldn’t you?” In pattern with the memory of their first meeting, Arthur’s fingers stroked their way down Bruce’s clothes, clinging and tugging. Although this was less from longing and more from intent. Bruce was a tactile thing in Arthur’s hands. A thing that could and would be touched, had always _meant_ to be touched. “I’m not holding you. I’m not tying you down. Bruce, the only thing keeping you here with me is you. You’re not chained to any old radiator.” 

Bruce made an odd sound, a little like a sob. It was a pulse of a sound, bigger and stronger than a heartbeat, but just as loud to Arthur’s ears. Arthur kissed Bruce’s neck, just above his shirt collar, and heard a heartbeat there, too. Scared little bird trying to fly right out of his neck. 

In a near-absent state of mind, Arthur’s mouth moved over Bruce’s neck, more savoring his warmth than anything, drinking in the flush on his skin. It was soft, better than silk, better than any luxury Arthur could only imagine. Bruce felt like the money he’d been raised on. As Arthur’s teeth lightly caught Bruce, he pulled Bruce’s shirttail from his pants—again, just as absent. 

Arthur felt a tug on his hair. Bruce’s small fingers had wrapped themselves in Arthur’s hair, pulling in helplessness, and the feeling of being _touched_ almost made Arthur go completely limp from head to foot. He needed it. He was starved for it. Touch, touch, _touch, touch anything, anywhere, touch, touch me_.

It did something to him. Something very striking.

Arthur pushed Bruce down against the ground between the Waynes’ bodies, not caring what this was going to do to his suit in the long run, what it was going to do to Bruce’s nice clothes. _The more of me that touches him, the more of him touches me,_ Arthur thought, frantic and ecstatic. Not only did he want Bruce to understand, but he wanted the both of them to. Arthur had never had this before. He had never gotten to take what he wanted from somebody. He had never known what this was like or why people did it.

Arthur wanted to understand. He wanted to understand and he wanted to be touched and he wanted to feel things that he, as a human being, was supposed to feel. 

This was his night. 

While Arthur was fumbling with Bruce’s pants button, Bruce found the opportunity to scramble backwards, but not before Arthur grabbed him and pulled him back, pinning both his wrists down with one hand. “No no no no no, no, you had your chance, mister, and you didn’t take it.” 

“I’ll give you anything you want.” Bruce sounded choked, almost entirely frozen with fear. “Anything in the world. I can buy you anything.” 

It was difficult to avoid kicks to the face when pulling Bruce’s shoes off, but Arthur managed with only a thin trickle of blood flowing from his nose, throwing them and Bruce’s trousers somewhere in Neverland. “I don’t want anything you can buy me, Brucie.”

“Please,” Bruce whispered. “Please don’t.”

”May I remind you, Bruce, _you did not walk away_.” 

The Waynes grew colder and colder on either side of their son as Arthur took him as his own, as a father, a brother, a lover, a teacher, anything Bruce would need him to be. As Bruce screamed and writhed, the city screamed and writhed in time with him, swallowing his sounds as easily as Arthur’s bloody grease-painted kisses did. It was agony and it was bliss and it was more sickening rot that was filling Arthur’s empty, dark cellar of a soul until there was nothing left to fill. He had no name, no identity, no nothing. He was depravity’s darling and he was Bruce’s in whatever way Bruce would have him. 

“Mine, little, little, baby brother,” Arthur forced out, fingernails digging into Bruce’s bare thigh and dragging, leaving behind white, raised lines and cutting into the skin. His hips snapped against Bruce’s ass and the boy cried, gasping sobs leaving his open, painted, bruised mouth, tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked utterly radiant. 

“You’re mine. Mine.” 


End file.
